


Operation Rescue Sourwolf

by HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, FBI Intern Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 17:44:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere/pseuds/HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere
Summary: Derek Hale will not be accused of another crime he didn’t commit.  Not on Stiles’ watch.(What really happened when Stiles used his position as FBI Intern to save Derek's life.)





	Operation Rescue Sourwolf

Stiles exits the briefing like his heels are on fire. He waits until he’s out of earshot of any of the other interns before pulling out his phone and frantically hitting the call button next to Derek’s name. 

It goes straight to an automated voicemail box.

Cursing, Stiles hangs up and runs his hand through his hair. He takes a few deep breaths to help steady himself enough to think.

Think, Stiles, think.

He nods to himself absently and heads towards intern housing. His roommate should be gone for another few hours, so he knows he won’t be interrupted. 

Stiles flings his bag down once he’s inside and pulls out his phone again, dialing a different number and exhaling in relief when someone actually picks up this time.

“Stiles?”

Pulling out his laptop, Stiles puts the phone on speaker. “Danny, buddy, boy am I glad you picked up.”

He wastes no time in getting Danny up to speed on the situation. After a few minutes of non-stop talking, Stiles pauses.

“So, you want me to help you hack into the FBI database?” Danny clarifies in a strangled voice. “Why can’t you ever just call to see how I’m doing?”

Stiles chuckles humorlessly. “Man, believe me, I wish I had those kind of luxuries. Will you help me?”

Two hours and as many cups of coffee later, Stiles is staring at the FBI surveillance video he’d seen in that morning’s briefing. 

“Danny, seriously, I owe you one. And I promise, if I survive this, I will call you just to ask how you’re doing.” Stiles says, not taking his eyes off the video. 

After hanging up, Stiles gets to work printing out everything they have on the feral unsub only he knows as Derek Hale.

“There’s no way,” he states firmly, frowning at the report in front of him.

Derek is wanted for the murder of a group of people in Brazil.

“Must have been a pack,” Stiles murmurs to himself, scrolling down to see if there are any other suspects. 

Luckily for Derek, two men were spotted at the site of the murders only a day prior to the crime. One bears no resemblance to Derek. The other, however…

Stiles smirks when a plan begins to formulate in his head. He puts on another pot of coffee and shakes his arms out, shrugging and stretching his shoulders before getting back to work.

Stiles is interrupted a few hours later by a text message from his roommate telling him that he wouldn’t be back until after dinner, giving Stiles three more hours to finalize his plan.

He briefly contemplates calling Scott, but figures he doesn’t want to bother him unless there’s something to report. Scott’s been radio silent for the past few days, so Stiles figures everything’s going well in Beacon Hills. No need to ruin that.

When he finds what he’s looking for in the file, Stiles cries out, pumping his fist in triumph.

The FBI plans to raid a warehouse where sources tell them a meeting with Derek and the two other suspects will take place in two days, so Stiles doesn’t have much time.

He waits for cover of darkness before executing phase one of his plan.

Derek Hale will not be accused of another crime he didn’t commit. Not on Stiles’ watch.

The interns aren’t issued firearms, but Stiles had been able to steal one from Chris Argent before he left California. He’s still not sure how much of that was his innate stealthiness, and how much was Chris actually wanting Stiles to find the gun.

Either way, Stiles was locked and loaded.

He boosts a car from a neighborhood nice enough to have cars with built in GPS’s, but not nice enough to have street cameras, and hits the road. The hunter’s apartment is roughly a two hour drive and if he floors it, he can get there before 9:00pm.

He approaches the apartment complex of one of the hunters he now knows executed the pack in Brazil. Stiles waits outside until nearly midnight, taking note of everyone who exits and enters the building.

When he’s sure the man is alone, Stiles easily picks the lock on the front door and climbs the stairs to the third level. 

Stiles double checks his firearm and makes sure the safety is on. Tucking it in his belt behind his back, and cringing at the thought of his father finding out he was so reckless with gun safety, he dons his drunkest expression and knocks on the door mutedly.

An angry and disheveled-looking man opens the door. Stiles is momentarily distracted by his resemblance to Derek – dark hair, piercing eyes, well-muscled, even the stubble is the same – before he remembers he’s supposed to be drunk.

“Heyyy, Jeffrey,” Stiles slurs, bumping into the doorframe for good measure. “Wait,” he closes one eye and tilts his head. “You’re not –” 

He cuts himself off and pretends to gag, using the distraction to step forward under the pretense of using not-Derek’s shoulder to steady himself.

When the hunter’s attention is fully on Stiles’ left hand on his shoulder, Stiles draws his weapon with his right and stands to full height, pressing the barrel against not-Derek’s forehead and forcing him into the room quietly.

The hunter tries to push Stiles’ right arm away, but Stiles is quicker. He dips down and pulls out his ankle knife, holding it to the man’s jugular.

“Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” Stiles says, barely concealing a grin.

“What’s the hard way?” The man asks defiantly.

Stiles shrugs. “There is no hard way, I’ve just always wanted to say that. Now, sit down. If you move, I’ll put a bullet in each kneecap.”

Once not-Derek – Ford, as it turns out – is properly zip tied to a kitchen chair, Stiles pulls himself up onto the kitchen counter and eyes the man speculatively.

“You know,” Stiles says conversationally, “killing entire packs never really works out well for hunters. Just ask the Argents.”

Ford spits at the ground. “Traitors. The Argent family is an embarrassment to hunters everywhere. Gerard is the only true Argent left.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs. “And as much as I’d love to delve into that debate with you, we have more pressing matters to attend to.”

For the first time, Ford looks wary. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, Ford. Can I call you Ford?” Without waiting for an answer, Stiles continues. “You’ve framed a friend of mine for murder, and I can’t have that.”

“Friend?” Ford repeats, confused. “Hale has no friends. He doesn’t even have a pack.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. He does have a pack,” Stiles insists, deadly quiet. He hops down from the counter and approaches Ford without breaking eye contact. “But do you know what he has that’s even more dangerous than a pack?”

Ford shakes his head, cautiously enraptured.

Stiles leans down until there are mere inches between his eyes and Ford’s. “Me.”

An hour later, Stiles’ work is done. Ford is unconscious on his couch, laying facedown so he doesn’t disturb his new burn wound. 

Stiles wipes down all evidence of his time at the apartment and slips out as quietly as he’d come in.

He ditches the car right where he found it and gets home around 4:00am to find that his roommate is, thankfully, asleep. Stiles pulls out his laptop and gets to work memorizing every fact in the case file. 

At sunrise, Stiles pulls himself together and heads straight to his supervisor’s office. 

“Mr. Stilinski, what can I do for you?” he asks warily, the question and answer session from yesterday’s briefing still clearly at the forefront of his mind.

Stiles smiles, oozing charm, and plops down into a chair across the desk from the man. “Actually, it’s about what I can do for you, Agent Altman.”

Agent Altman interlocks his fingers on his desk in front of him and cocks his eyebrow sardonically. If Stiles didn’t have so much practice dealing with eyebrow language, it might have had more effect. “Is that so?”

Stiles nods, still smiling. “I’d like to help with the recon work for Operation Cabeceiras.”

Agent Altman leans forward, face losing all sign of amusement. “Son, you shouldn’t even know that project exists. All I showed you yesterday morning was a video clip of the unsub; how is it that you came upon this information?”

Stiles leans back, attempting to look the picture of calm. “I didn’t get into this program on my looks, Agent Altman.”

The man looks begrudgingly impressed, though still unconvinced he should involve Stiles in the investigation. 

“All I’m asking is to help you with the recon you’re doing on the warehouse this afternoon,” Stiles insists.

“How did you –”

“Ask Agent McCall,” Stiles interrupts. “I was instrumental in taking down a trained assassin my Junior year of high school. I found out how he was poisoning people, figured out where the antidote was hidden, and held my own even under threat of death before Agent McCall was forced to put the assassin down. I can handle taking a few pictures and casing a building.”

Stiles bit his lip as Agent Altman thought it over. 

“I promise I won’t get in the way. One mistake, and you won’t even have to take me on the raid tomorrow,” he couldn’t help adding.

Agent Altman shook his head in wonder. “Well, young man, I can’t say I’m not impressed. You can help with the recon, but,” he holds up his finger as Stiles begins his happy dance, “I don’t want you anywhere near the raid tomorrow.”

Stiles schools his face. “I understand,” he responds with a nod.

“We leave in two hours,” Agent Altman says, dismissing him with a wave.

With phase two of his plan complete, Stiles leaves the room smiling.

Stiles is able to wait until he gets back to his place before celebrating, but just barely. He’s hardly through the front door before he hollers out a whoop and lets his limbs fly indiscriminately.

His celebration is cut short when he realizes that he’s not alone in his apartment.

Knowing his roommate isn’t supposed to be home, Stiles reaches under the side table by the front door, only to find that his gun is missing from the holster.

“Looking for this?” comes a voice Stiles recognizes.

He turns the corner and sees Derek in his living room, holding Stiles’ gun with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, unable to stop himself from smiling as he says the man’s name.

“Stiles, why do you have a gun?” he asks, exasperated.

“Well, technically, you have my gun,” Stiles responds cheekily.

Derek rolls his eyes, putting the gun down on the coffee table carefully. “You need to stop.”

Stiles frowns. “Stop what?”

“You know what. I’m not sure what your plan is, but I’ve got everything under control,” Derek insists with an angry huff.

“Of course you do,” Stiles says sarcastically, walking over to the fridge and taking out two bottles of water. He tosses one to Derek and sits down on the couch. 

“I’m serious, Stiles,” Derek insists, remaining standing. “I tracked you here from that hunter’s apartment. These people are dangerous and there’s no reason –”

“No reason?” Stiles interrupts incredulously, setting his water bottle down on the table and standing up. He crosses the floor in two quick strides until he’s only a foot away from Derek. “You really believe that? You’re the reason, Derek. You.”

Derek looks away from Stiles and takes a step back. “That’s not a good reason. I’m not worth you getting hurt. I haven’t even seen you in almost a year –”

“Yeah, maybe we can focus on that for a second? I haven’t seen you in a long time, and now you’re here. Can we just appreciate that for a moment before your martyr complex kicks in?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches up momentarily before he sends Stiles a begrudging nod.

Stiles smiles and relaxes. “It’s good to see you, man. Really.” Before he can talk himself out of it, he closes the distance between them and pulls Derek into a hug.

It takes a few seconds, but eventually Derek hugs him back. He wraps his strong arms around Stiles’ shoulders and fits his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles shivers briefly at the intimacy of the contact, and tightens his grip behind Derek’s back.

When they separate, Stiles has to force himself to look away from the heat in Derek’s eyes. Clearing his throat, he sits back down on the couch and takes a swig of his water. 

“So, why don’t I walk you through my plan, and if after I’m done you still think I should stay out of it, I will?” he suggests, gesturing to the couch cushion next to him.

Derek shakes his head to clear his thoughts and sits down stiffly. 

It takes Stiles about twenty minutes to tell Derek everything. After he’s done, he searches Derek’s face for any sign of what the man’s thinking.

“Stiles.” He sounds strangled, like the word is being forced out of him. “I can’t believe you did that. For me,” he adds quietly, looking down at his hands in his lap.

Full of false bravado, Stiles reaches forward and grasps Derek’s hands. “I think you’d be surprised how much I’d be willing to do for you,” he admits at a whisper.

Derek looks up at him then, his eyes betraying his vulnerability. “Why?”

Stiles half smiles. “You know why,” he replies, giving up all pretense that his crush on Derek is still a secret.

Derek shakes his head in disbelief. “But what about Lydia?”

Stiles shrugs. “What about Lydia? We had a long talk while she was driving me out here. Decided we’re better as friends. Besides, she could tell I was gone on someone else.”

There’s silence while Derek absorbs this new information. 

Stiles scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah?” he whispers, not daring to raise his voice any higher and risk popping the bubble they’re in.

“If we make it out of this, I’d very much like to kiss you.”

Derek chuckles lowly. “Ok,” he concedes with a twinkle in his eye.

Stiles beams and leans back.

Just like that, the bubble is set aside, but not burst.

They go over the plan in painstaking detail until it’s time for Stiles to leave to do recon on the warehouse. 

“I’m going with you,” Derek insists, standing up when Stiles does.

Stiles pats him on the chest and pushes him back down onto the couch. “Oh, no, Sourwolf. You’re staying right here. They’ve got all of Quantico looking for you. In fact, I have no idea how they didn’t spot you breaking in here.”

Derek smirks proudly, which Stiles fails not to find adorable. 

“Stay here until I get back. My roommate should be home in about an hour, but he never goes in my room. You should be safe there.”

He gets to Agent Altman’s office with fifteen minutes to spare. He stays in the back of the briefing, going against his nature and not drawing any attention to himself. 

When they finally arrive at the warehouse, Stiles makes sure he’s one of the five people who are given a camera for recon. 

Hoping his plan will work, Stiles stays close to Agent Altman and watches the front door of the warehouse, clicking a photo every time something changes or a new person goes in or out. 

There are five men; only one of whom Stiles recognizes from the case file. Ford is not among them.

At around 2:00pm, there is a flurry of movement that has the agents on high alert. An unknown hunter drives into the lot outside the warehouse and runs around to the passenger side door.

Stiles furiously takes shot after shot of the men as they approach the vehicle and help a nearly-unconscious Ford out of the passenger seat.

His shirt has been removed and Stiles can clearly see his handiwork on Ford’s back.

“That looks like our unsub, Sir,” says an Agent to Stiles’ right.

Agent Altman nods once and turns his attention back to the men supporting Ford. “What’s wrong with him?”

Stiles takes a few more pictures, then pulls one up on the digital screen of Ford’s back. “Looks like a burn mark, Agent Altman. A big one, right in between his shoulder blades. ”

The man frowns at the photo. “I don’t understand.”

“Didn’t he have a tattoo in the video?” Stiles asks innocently. “Maybe he burned it off so you couldn’t identify him.”

“Hmm,” Agent Altman agrees. “Seems likely. Alright, everyone. We have a headcount and an accurate layout of the warehouse. The man with the burn is our top priority in tomorrow’s raid. Let’s move out.”

They pack up and head back to Quantico. Stiles focuses on his breathing the whole ride home, hardly believing his luck.

When he gets home, he can barely contain his excitement. He sweeps past his confused roommate and runs into his room, locking the door behind him. He turns to tell Derek the good news, only to find the wolf asleep in his bed.

Stiles can’t help the fond smile that forms as he takes in Derek’s sleeping form.

Without waking him, Stiles strips down to his boxers and a t shirt and climbs into bed beside Derek.

He tangles their feet together and falls into a deep, peaceful sleep.

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, Derek is nowhere to be found. He stretches sleepily in his bed and hops into the shower, hoping Derek is still somewhere in the apartment.

He’s proven correct when he walks into the kitchen to find breakfast and coffee waiting for him at the table.

Stiles hums happily, gripping Derek’s shoulder before sitting down and helping himself.

Derek blushes at the pleased sounds Stiles makes as he’s eating, and ducks his head more than once to hide the sudden coloring of his cheeks.

Stiles pretends not to notice and hides his own smile.

“So,” says Stiles around a mouthful of bacon. “Time for the final phase of my plan.”

“The one where I get beaten to a bloody pulp?” Derek replies dryly. “My favorite part of your plan.”

Stiles swats his hand away from the last strip of bacon, delighting in the playful growl he receives in response. 

Derek leaves half an hour before Stiles. There is a moment before Derek opens the door where Stiles thinks he’s about to kiss him, but Derek settles for a cursory hug.

Stiles doesn’t so much ask if he can join the raid as he does just get in the car, but before anyone knows it, he’s at the warehouse with the team.

He dons a sleek FBI jacket and gathers around Agent Altman as he briefs the team for the final time. When Agent Altman’s eyes find Stiles’, he sighs and pulls Stiles aside.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” he asks. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say the agent was growing fond of him.

“I told you if I got in the way of your recon, you didn’t have to take me on the raid,” Stiles reminds him with a charming grin. “I didn’t get in the way, did I?”

Agent Altman tips his head back and looks at the sky for help. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass the whole time you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Yup!” Stiles replies happily. “Now, are we gonna get this show on the road? I’d be more than happy to take point on this one, Sir.” He starts walking towards the warehouse, but is stopped with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Just stay in the back and try not to get hurt,” the man orders before walking away with purpose.

By now, Derek should have succeeded in getting himself caught by the hunters and should be about fifteen minutes into their interrogation in the warehouse. Stiles only hopes the FBI gets inside before the false information Derek is giving them can be verified. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and joins the team as they prepare for the assault. 

“Everyone ready?” Altman asks the agents surrounding him. “Let’s go.”

They rush in and are immediately met with gunfire. Stiles sees Derek tied to a chair in the middle of the room and makes a beeline for him. 

He reaches Derek and has just finished untying the ropes binding his hands when he suddenly feels a sharp, blinding pain in his foot. 

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice rings out as Stiles falls to his knees.

The next thing he knows, Stiles feels a strong arm gripping his back, and another gripping under his knees. He’s lifted up and carried out of warehouse through a hailstorm of bullets.

He barely makes it outside before the pain in his foot becomes too much to bear and he loses consciousness. 

When Stiles wakes up, he’s in the back of one of the FBI vehicles. His foot is propped up and wrapped with white gauze. 

“Damnit, Stilinski, what the hell am I going to do with you?” Agent Altman asks him with unmistakable concern in his voice.

Stiles smiles at him innocently, not wanting to say anything that might compromise Derek’s life, or his space in the FBI program.

Agent Altman shakes his head and turns to the side, nodding briefly at someone Stiles can’t see. “There’s someone who wants to thank you.”

Derek comes around the corner with a glint in his eye. Stiles can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Derek, here, says you saved his life,” says Agent Altman, clapping Derek on the back. “Turns out, Derek had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He came across one of the suspects when they were en route to the warehouse and they thought he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He was lucky we got here when we did.”

“Well, he was in trouble, Sir, I was just doing my job,” Stiles replies with a grimace, eyeing his foot warily. “Derek, was it?”

Stiles holds out his hand and shakes Derek’s firmly. 

Agent Altman nods at Stiles’ foot. “Looks like you lost a toe, there, son, but you should be just fine. We’re giving you a month to recover, and I will personally see to it that you have your spot in our internship program when you return.”

“Th – thank you, Sir,” says Stiles incredulously.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ve got all the suspects in custody and are transferring them now. Excuse me,” says Agent Altman, nodding at them both and leaving without another word.

“Wrong place, wrong time, huh?” Stiles smirks. 

Derek shrugs. “You’d be surprised what people will believe to get a grown man to stop crying.”

Stiles jaw drops. “You cried for him? Hah, I wish I’d have been able to see that.”

“Instead, you were unconscious,” Derek replies with a grin. “No, I get it,” he holds up his hands in supplication. “The pinky toe is a very important appendage. I’d probably pass out if I lost mine too.”

Stiles swats at Derek with a laugh.

“Come on,” says Derek, nodding towards a car not too far away. “I told Agent Altman I’d give you a ride back. It’s the least I could do for you saving my life, and all. Especially since they’re going to be here awhile, processing everyone.”

“My hero,” Stiles responds dryly.

They get in the car and head back to Quantico so Stiles can pack before they head to Beacon Hills to help Scott, who Stiles learned from Derek is actually in trouble.

Stiles is preparing his ‘you should have told me what was going on’ speech for Scott in his head when Derek pulls over about thirty minutes from their destination.

“What’s happening?” Stiles asks, looking around for any clues as to why they’ve stopped.

Derek turns to face Stiles once the car is parked. He looks nervous, so Stiles bites back a sarcastic comment begging to be let out.

“Do you remember what you said, before the raid?” Derek asks quietly, leaning forward slightly.

Understanding lights up Stiles’ face. “You mean about what I wanted to do if we both got out of this alive?”

Derek nods, leaning even closer.

Stiles scoots forward in his seat and draws himself towards Derek until only inches separate their lips.

Their eyes meet and a soft look is exchanged between the two. Suddenly, Stiles is certain.

Certain that everything he’d been through and all the hell he’d endured had been worth it.

Because it had led him to this moment. 

He closes the gap between the two of them and presses his lips to Derek’s. 

Stiles expects the kiss to be hard and rough, but is delighted to find that it’s not. It’s soft and insistent, they way Stiles has always seen Derek.

They keep it chaste, neither feeling the need to rush the other. When they separate, Stiles runs his hand down Derek’s cheek and cups his jaw gently.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
